The Most Delicate Heart
by Regal Idiot
Summary: An SQ companion piece to The Most Resilient Heart. It picks up from the end of the diner scene in 3x22. Enjoy!


**As mentioned in the description, this is a companion piece to The Most Resilient Heart. The focus is SQ, so I don't address the make out session between Hook and Emma. Feel free to pretend it never happened. Enjoy!**

She's gone before you can blink. There's a sudden absence of power and pain in the room — an absence of all that is Regina. There is a grey mass in your throat, hard and heavy, and it's rising, rising, rising. No amount of swallowing can push it back down, but oh, how you try. Your gut is twisted up, like gnarled roots of a tree and why won't your lungs take in air? Why does it feel as though you're drowning from the inside? Why is your heart pushing against the bars of its cage so aggressively?

"Regina," you whisper and you run after her, all heavy steps and ragged breath and swollen heart. You reach the sidewalk in time to see the plume of purple smoke disperse. "No," you gasp, "no." You need to explain, to apologize — to inject light back into those sad, dark eyes, because seeing the hurt there is more than your heart can take. It's not resilient, not like hers. Regina seems soft on the outside but is inwardly strong; you seem hard on the outside but are inwardly soft. And you know this — you know that she will hurt and cry and maybe throw fireballs, but she will always keep pushing on because she doesn't know how not to. And you love this about her — you love her strength and sometimes it makes your breath catch in your throat because it is so beautiful. She is beautiful.

So, you run. You bring one foot forward and then the other, even though the grey mass is climbing into your mouth and it tastes like nausea. Even though your heart is surely cracking your ribs, creating fissures in bone. Even though your lungs have erected walls to keep the oxygen out. Even then, you run, all the way to 108 on Mifflin. And you pound on the front door several times, despite the fact that there are no lights on inside. The house is shrouded in darkness, but you know she's in there, somewhere. You know because your fingertips are tingling with the magic that connects you both; her proximity is electric.

When the sides of your hands are raw and stinging, you vacate the front porch and make your way around the side of the house. Your eyes travel the vines that snake out from the earth and wind their way up to Regina's balcony. Ten seconds later, you are climbing, scaling the house with your exhausted body. Five minutes later, you are throwing a leg over the balcony wall and pulling yourself over with graceless aplomb. You land face first on the floor and quickly pull yourself up. You look through the glass door and it's dark inside, but you continue to peer in until your eyes adjust and you can just make out a huddled form on the bed.

"Regina!" You knock on the glass and wait. Nothing. You knock again. And again. "Regina, please let me in. Please." Still nothing. And then, something. The huddled form shifts, rises and moves toward the door. "Thank God, Regin-" And your words get stuck. They are caught somewhere between your chest and your throat, feeding the grey mass, causing it to grow.

Her eyes peer directly into yours and it feels like dying. It's not about the tears or the heavy streaks of eye makeup on olive cheeks. No, it's the openness of her gaze; her walls are down and the depth in her eyes is bottomless and you are falling into them. Falling into raw vulnerability and pain and oh, God, where have the walls gone? Why is the hurt so exposed? It's too much; you want to look away, but more than that, you want to touch her. The urge to hold her against you, breathe in the scent of jasmine and spices and apples that is so uniquely Regina, and repeatedly whisper "sorry" into her ear is overwhelming. There are rivers cascading down your cheeks and no way to stem the flow. "Regina," you manage to choke out again. Her eyes never leave yours as her hand reaches out, toward the door handle. She holds your gaze, even as you drown in hers, even as her hand reaches past the door and takes hold of the string attached to the slatted blinds that are currently raised. She looks directly at you as she tugs the string and releases it. The blinds unravel and fall to the floor, hiding her in darkness. But even closed doors and blinds are not enough to conceal the loud sob that emanates from within that blackened room.

You try to curb the responding sob that is pushing its way up your throat, demanding release, but you can't. It escapes from your mouth alongside a guttural moan, as you turn away from the door and your back slides down it. You feel as though your skin has peeled away and every fraying nerve is exposed to the elements. And it hurts, hurts, hurts, this horrid vulnerability — it's hers and it's yours and it's overpowering and it's deep. It's so deep, you can feel it in every vein and vessel, in the marrow of your bones and it's just. Too. Much. What have you done? You bring your knees up to your chest — a pitiful attempt at self-preservation — and the tears are coming thick and fast. "Regina, I'm sorry. So, so sorry. I never wanted this — to hurt you. I just- I want happiness for you." You hear nothing from the other side of the door. "Please," you whisper. "Please believe me." Your head falls back against the glass and you're so tired, you let your eyes fall closed, even as they continue to leak, and you tell yourself it's just for a moment. Just a moment.

You wake up with a sore neck and one side of your face warmed by the morning sun. Your cheeks are dry and stiff with salt and it all comes flooding back in an instant. You don't know what to do, or why you are still here, but you need to go; you need to escape darkened shades of brown, and tear-streaked olive cheeks and bottomless wells of hurt. You need to outrun your own pain and guilt because you are Emma Swan and this is what you do.

They're probably looking for you: Snow, Charming, Hook. They're probably worried, but you can't find it in yourself to care right now. You message Henry and let him know you're okay and just need some down time. You sit in the bug, on the outskirts of town, taking frequent gulps of Jack and it helps, kind of. It dulls everything around the edges, including the pain. It semi-waters the arid desert of your heart, where apple trees and jasmine flowers come to die. It burns on the way down, but you know you deserve the burn and so much more, because you hurt her. You did the right thing, but somehow it was also the wrong thing and now there is only the burn. Somewhere between the halfway mark and the three quarter mark of the bottle, you drift away into blackness and it's a welcome reprieve.

When you wake, the sky is dark and the air inside the bug is stale and chilly. You have cottonmouth and a bad taste on your tongue and you're quite certain you are going to throw up. You push the door open and hang your head outside just in time for the Jack to make its way back up your throat and land with a yellow splash on the earth below. You realise you haven't eaten since yesterday morning; there's nothing for you to throw up except bile. But you're still drunk so that's okay and you know you deserve this sick, sick feeling in your gut. You know you should stay put until you sober up, but you can smell jasmine flowers and apples and spices in the air and you can feel the pull, toward 108 Mifflin.

Somehow, you get to Regina's alive and hurl yourself against her front door with everything you have. You slam your fists against the door for several minutes with no response. "I'm not leaving, Regina. Open the door!" You're yelling and slurring and you know you are a mess, but it's all you can think to do. When your fists are grazed and bleeding and the last of your energy dissipates, you crumple on her porch with fresh tears on your cheeks and you stay there. You stay and you stay and you stay, but she doesn't appear.

Days pass and still you don't see Regina. She organizes for David to be the one to bring Henry over and pick him up again. She stays behind those glass doors, and doesn't even step out to tend to her garden. Perhaps this should deter you, but it doesn't. You scale the wall outside the Mifflin Street house every night and apologize until the moon dips low in the sky and the sun takes its place. You drink during the day and then you go to Regina's and everyone talks. Everyone expresses concern and offers help but they weren't around to see how gloriously you fucked up every single relationship you ever had and they don't see why this is so hard for you to take. They don't smell jasmine and apples and spices and they don't see the arid desert in your heart that kills the flowers and the trees. They don't understand the preciousness of what Regina did when she made her memories yours — when she gave you a second chance at raising Henry. To take away her second chance when she gave you yours is like a shining beacon for all that is defective within you. And it crushes you from the inside out.

After a bottle of vodka one day, you pass out but you don't wake up. And then you do, only, you're not in the bug, parked by the beach. No, you're in a single bed with stiff white sheets. The smell of antiseptic is strong in the room and Henry stares at you with wet, wide eyes. When yours meet his, he looks down and shakes his head and the grey matter rolls up from your chest and settles in your throat. How can he look so old? He's just a kid; he shouldn't look so old. His shoulders shouldn't look so weighted. He meets your gaze again and speaks with the disappointed tone of a parent. "What is wrong with you, Ma, seriously. What is this." They aren't questions. He turns and leaves the room without another word and your bottom lip is still quivering when Snow and Charming enter.

She finds you in the forest, sitting with your back against the well, JD in hand, reminiscing about the day you climbed out of that well, when Regina saved you. She approaches with hands buried in pockets and tired eyes. You look into those dark, bottomless pools and they still pull you in, but you don't drown. Her sadness has shrunk and it's taken you with it. You don't say anything because you can't. After weeks of climbing onto Regina's balcony and crying "sorry" through her door, there's nothing left to say. So you take another swig of Jack and close your eyes.

"Why?" it comes as a low whisper, but to you, it may as well be a scream. "Why are you doing this?"

You look at the ground, try to hold back the rivers and keep that angry heart in its cage. "I'm sorry," you say, yet again, and your voice wavers.

"No! That's enough. I don't want to hear another sorry from you, Miss Swan. Do you understand?"

You look up at her and the dark eyes are bright, sparking and fierce. "So we're back to that again," you murmur and the change in title burns more than the Jack, but the spark is back and how you have missed that fire.

Regina sighs. "Force of habit," she mutters. "I'm not angry with you."

"You're not?"

Regina shakes her head softly. "No. Robin is… he's a good man and a great father. But let's be honest, we were both high on pixie dust, lion tattoos and expectation."

"I have a lyon tattoo too, you know," you mumble and hold up your wrist for her see. "That's L-Y-O-N – as in the flower – but whatever."

And then Regina smiles. And it's not a smirk like the one you've seen tacked on to the end of a sarcastic comment from time to time, but an honest to goodness smile. It's wide and it's bright and the corners of her eyes crinkle with it and suddenly there are several shades of brown them. It's like a tropical rain drenching the desert in your chest and reviving apple trees and jasmine flowers. It's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen and your breath catches in your throat. "Is that so?" she asks, the smile shifting into her trademark smirk.

"Just saying," you respond, a half smile lifting the corners of your own mouth.

Regina laughs softly, but the laughter dies and the smile goes with it. "Emma, you need to stop this. Stop punishing yourself and everyone around you. Henry needs you — and if I ever have to answer another phone call to a distraught Snow White, it will be too soon."

You look down again, shame colouring your cheeks and then there are fingers beneath your chin, soft and warm, tilting it upwards.

"And stop doing that," she says gently, when her gaze holds yours once more. "Hold your head up."

Your eyes are leaking again and the cage in your chest is rattling and you wonder how it's possible to have a raging heart and a desert inside one rib cage. "I'm a mess, Regina," you sigh.

"No, you're drunk. And believe me, that will pass. Are you going to tell me what this is for?"

You sigh again and shrug. "I'm not good at this. Words, feelings — any of it, really."

"Yes dear, I had noticed," Regina smirks.

You scowl. "Not helping."

"I'm sorry."

"I thought we had nixed 'sorry' from the English language."

"No, we 'nixed' it from yours. _I_ can say whatever I like."

You laugh for the first time in weeks. "Whatever, _your majesty_."

"Now explain yourself," Regina says, gently but firmly, in a tone you've heard her use with Henry many times.

You squirm, the discomfort of divulging your inner struggle stealing your words. "It's hard. I just- it's like, with the whole saviour thing. Everyone has this idea of who I am, or who I should be, but I'm not her. I'm not that… together, or perfect, or whatever. I mean, you gave me everything, Regina. Your whole life, your memories of Henry — Henry himself. You gave me this second chance at happiness with Henry and then you had this second chance with Robin Hood and I took it from you. What kind of person does that? Like, it's horrible and what's worse is that I can't regret sparing someone's life either. But it's more than that. When Cora couldn't take my heart, I thought it was because it was strong, but it's not. My heart is so weak, Regina. It's not like yours. She couldn't take it because of the strength I had taken from the love of others — it was all them, their strength. I had none of that before; I was nothing. And I think, if that love went away or I lost these people, I'd be nothing again. I am entirely sustained by other people and I don't know if that's right."

Regina lowers herself to the ground and sits beside you, her back pressed against the well too. She turns to face you. "Emma, you grew up in the foster system, without the love of a family to sustain you. Not only did you survive, but your heart still has the ability to love and to receive love. If that isn't resilience, I don't know what is. Being brave enough to allow others to love you and to love them in return, that is the very essence of strength, despite everything my mother ever taught me. You were not nothing before — you _had_ nothing, and those are very different things. The fact that you feel badly for not feeling bad about saving Marian's life is just another example of how good and how strong your heart is. And as for Robin, he wasn't my second chance."

The river is flowing down your cheeks again and your heart flutters madly, but this time, it doesn't crack ribs. Every word Regina has said plants itself in a desert that's becoming a garden, filled with rich soil and apple trees and jasmine flowers and fresh seedlings. There is rain, so much rain, and the seeds are already sprouting and taking root. "You really believe all of that?"

"I don't just believe it, I _know_ it."

You smile. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she smiled back.

"So you think someone else might be your second chance?"

Regina nods. "I do."

"I hope you meet them soon, Regina. I really do," you say.

She sighs. "You really are an idiot, Miss Swan." She shakes her head.

"Excuse me?"

"I've already met them. Her, actually."

You feel your mouth fall open and realise you are probably gaping at her. "Her? Do I know her?!"

Regina sighs again. "Such an idiot," she murmurs and before you can respond, she is leaning into you and covering your lips with hers. It is soft and chaste, a declaration and a question, and you seek to answer as you return the kiss. When she pulls back and meets your gaze once more, you see confliction in her eyes. There's something amazing, like wonder, but there's also fear.

"I'm sorry," she breathes, but you know that's a lie. "I shouldn't h-"

You pull her to you and meet her lips again, and there's nothing chaste about this kiss. It's filled with connection, honesty, power, lust and the seedlings of something more. It's deep and warm and jasmine and apple and spices and magic. When you eventually pull apart, you rest your forehead against Regina's and breathe her in. "Your smell," you sigh.

Regina pulls back, eyebrows raised. "My what?"

You feel heat burgeoning in your cheeks and spreading down your neck. "Your scent. It's like jasmine, apples and spices."

"And?"

"I just love it. I could breathe you in all day."

She laughs suddenly. "Well, I love _that_."

You frown. "What?"

"The way you blush with your entire face and neck when you're embarrassed." She smirks.

You blush harder and she laughs again, soft, deep, and melodious. "Glad one of us likes that," you mumble. You move your hand and the forgotten bottle of JD falls over, spilling its contents onto the soil.

Regina's smile descends into a frown. "Enough of this, Emma. No more. I want you to live; Henry wants you to live." She reaches over and picks up the bottle.

You nod. "My liver is so over this, you have no idea. I might need, like… help, though. To stop, I mean."

"Yes, I imagine you will — and that's okay. Just please, take care of yourself. And let us take care of you too. I may not deserve that from you, but Henry does."

You reach for her hand as you both stand. "You do deserve that Regina. You deserve everything." You tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear and she smiles, big and bright and beautiful. And you're kissing her again because how can you not?


End file.
